"How can you say that, Julian? You don't even know him!"

It was true that he had met Stanwood on only a handful of occasions, but Julian knew his reputation well. "I know him-much better than you believe," he said low. "I don't want to hurt you, darling, but the man wants nothing more than your money." Sophie's head jerked up; the hurt in her eyes slashed painfully at his heart. "He wants it because he has lost his in gaming hells," he doggedly continued. "His reputation is reprehensible-"

"He said you would say that!"

Julian wondered if Stanwood had told her all of what he might say about the bastard. For there was much more, but he was unwilling to offend her with the worst details of his reputation, which included a proclivity for inflicting pain on his bed partners.

"Please try and hear me, love. There are rumors of Sir William's cruelty . . . he will not treat you with the esteem you deserve, do you understand? He is not the sort of man who would revere a wife-"

"He has not as yet offered for me, Julian, and I dare say he won't, knowing your prejudice against him as he does," she said, lifting her chin defiantly.

Julian's hold on his temper was slipping. "You have other suitors. Aunt Violet said that young Henry Dillon has called-"

"He's a child!" she cried. "All of them! Sir William predicted this; he said you would marry me off to the suitor with the fattest purse, regardless of my feelings in the matter!"

The bloody bastard was pitting her against him. Fury was quickly mounting in Julian, and he fought to maintain his composure. "He is manipulating you, Sophie," he responded evenly. "I forbid you to see him, and I am not open to debate on the matter."

The hand in her lap was trembling-she was desperately trying to maintain her composure, too. "We never debate anything, Julian. You dictate, and I am expected to follow."

He ignored her remark. "Mark me, Sophie. This will be the last time I will tell you."

She came clumsily to her feet, piercing him with a dark look. "As you wish," she said bitterly, and walked unsteadily from the library, leaving Julian with the funny feeling that there would be nothing as he wished.

When Sophie did not come to supper, he sent a tray up. When Tinley returned and informed him Lady Sophie had refused the tray, Julian tossed his linen napkin aside and shoved away from the table, leaving a plate full of food himself.

He knew her misery, and God, how he wished he could change everything for her. How he wished he could make Stanwood honorable. Unfortunately for both of them, he couldn't change a bloody thing, least of all, Stanwood's rotten character. And as it stood, Julian would not change his mind in this.

He had vowed to his dying father to keep his sisters safe and well. He had failed miserably with Valerie. He would not fail with Sophie.

God, he had to get out of this house. What was once a spacious mansion was beginning to feel like a closet where he and Sophie were forced to co-exist. Harrison Green, he had learned from Arthur just last evening, was having another of his bawdy routs in celebration of All Saints' Day. The nephew of an influential earl, Harrison Green had more money than brains, and his single purpose in life was to provide the town's entertainment. A rout at Harrison Green's was guaranteed to be crowded with London's elite, unfettered by convention or propriety-exactly the sort of mindless entertainment Julian needed at the moment.

Julian was not disappointed. Arriving at Green's, he could scarcely squeeze past a harried footman, wig askew, to gain entry. Once inside the foyer, he was immediately accosted by Lady Phillipot, a very tall and rather large woman squeezed into a gown so tight that he could see the stays of her corset straining against the satin. Her ample bosom was dangerously close to spilling over when she latched on to his arm with a bright smile. Julian had heard that Lord Phillipot was abroad, and thought that rather explained the woman's overly bright smile.

"Kettering!" she chirped loudly, beaming at him. "Ooh, what good fortune that a Rogue has joined us!"

"Lady Phillipot, how do you do?"

"Did you come alone?" she asked eagerly, peering around him. "Shall I show you around? Oh, say that I shall! I should very much like a few dear friends to see a man as handsome as you on my arm!" she declared, and burst into a loud, piercing laugh.

"Earl Kettering? Good God, didn't think to see you tonight!" Harrison Green, a short, round man who still dressed in the bright colors of a past era stuffed his monocle in his eye and peered closely at Julian. "Didn't think to see you any night, truth be told."

"What, and pass up what promises to be such a lively event?" Julian asked, smiling at Lady Phillipot as he peeled her fingers from his arm. "Don't mind, do you old chap?" he asked Green.

"Lord no! Just leave some of our fair damsels to frolic with the rest of us, will you?"

Lady Phillipot howled at that. "Harrison, you devil," she cried, slapping him on the shoulder with her fan.

"I shall endeavor to do just that, but I shan't make any promises," Julian said, and smiling, smoothly step-ped away from Lady Phillipot before she could latch on to him again. "I assume the game room is in the usual location?" he asked, not waiting for the answer as he quickly gained the stairs.

The size of the crowd surprised him but then again, the late fall meant fewer soirees as the gentry slowly returned to their country homes for the winter. He pushed his way through the throng of men and women in various stages of flirtation along the stairs, drinking liberally from a flute of champagne someone had pressed into his hand.

On the first floor, the drove was even thicker. A waltz was in full swing in a small ballroom. Across the hall, a long sideboard was set with food; several small tables were scattered about and filled with Green's hungry guests. Just down from there was the main salon, where several men were engaged in card games on which hundreds of pounds were wagered. Julian picked up another flute of champagne from a passing footman and made his way to the ballroom, preferring the scenery of dancing women to the smoke-filled gaming room. That was one thing he truly enjoyed about Green's affairs-innocent young debutantes, fearful of ruining their pristine reputations, would never darken his door. The sort of women who attended a Harrison Green affair were either married-and therefore past the age of worrying about their chastity-or uncaring of society's regard for them.

Those were the women he enjoyed the most.

Like Lady Prather, who was making her way toward him. Julian smiled as she covertly brushed her hand across his thigh. "My lord, you've been gone so long," she pouted prettily.

"Not so very long," he said, surreptitiously running a hand around her waist and over her hip. "Where is Lord Prather?"

"The game room, as always," she said, deliberately brushing her breast against his arm. "Will you dance with me?"

He was only human. He led the pretty blonde onto the dance floor and waltzed her into the thick of the crowd, smiling as she murmured all the things she would like to do to his body. The end of the dance found them near the string quartet and partially secluded from the crowd. Julian could not help himself-he kissed the temptress, hungrily and long-until reason caught hold of him, and he begged his escape before he found himself in deep trouble with another husband. Leaving a sulking Lady Prather behind, he worked his way to the far end of the ballroom and the doors opened onto the terrace to draw breath into the house. He leaned against the wall and sipped his champagne, watching the dancers twirl by him, smiling suggestively at a group of young women who were eyeing him over the tops of their fans.

A movement just outside his peripheral vision caused him to turn his head toward the terrace-and Julian caught his breath.

Claudia.

He had not expected to see her here tonight-Harrison Green seemed so . . . inadequate for her, if not a little risque. But there she was, alone on the terrace, standing beneath the overhang of the porch above. Her gaze was locked on a rather garish painting of the sun and moon and stars above her head. In the shallow light of a pair of rush torches, she turned a slow pirouette, thoughtfully tilting her head from one side to the other as she studied the painting.

She looked magnificent. The pewter satin gown she wore was the exact color of her eyes. The bodice of the gown dipped enticingly low; the sleeves, fitting tight around her upper arms, left her shoulders gleaming white and smooth. In one hand a half-empty flute of champagne dangled. The other hand fingered the triple strand of pearls at her neck that matched those strung loosely through her coiffure. A thick tress of hair was carelessly pushed behind her ear, tangling with the pearl drop earrings she wore.

He was reminded of the night two years past, when she had appeared at the Wilmington Ball on her father's arm, snatching the breath from his lungs.

She slowly came to a halt, her head bent backward, exposing her slender neck. Julian swallowed a lump of strong desire as he gazed unabashedly at that neck, the slope of it into her shoulders, the rise of a generous bosom- Her unexpected laughter startled him, a joyous laugh that spilled over the terrace and into the night. She stumbled backward a step or two, smiling as she lowered her head. Bowled over by her brilliance, Julian felt his heart suddenly hammering against his chest, his blood coursing hot through his veins. She sipped from the flute, then turned toward him, her eyes registering her surprise when she saw him standing there, watching her.

And God help him, she smiled. She smiled at him, freely and honestly. Swaying a bit on her feet, she lifted the flute to her lips and drained it, then pointed the empty glass at him with a playful frown. "Really, one shouldn't spy. It's quite rude."

"Was I spying?"

"You were," she said, and absently twirled the flute between slender fingers.

"No. Not spying. Merely enjoying the air."

"Mmm . . . it is wonderful, isn't it?" she asked, sighing, and glanced at her empty flute. Then at him. "Are you going to drink that?" she asked, and pointed to the flute he had forgotten he held.

"Not presently." He walked out onto the terrace, handing her the champagne. With another gorgeous smile, Claudia drank, her lips touching the crystal where his had been. In the dim light, her eyes fairly shone, as if lit from somewhere deep within. There was no loathing in her expression as there was last evening, but. . . curiosity? Amusement? He bent his head to one side, considering her. "I must be dreaming," he said flatly.

Claudia arched her brows and handed him her empty flute. "What an odd thing to say. You aren't dreaming, my lord."

He shook his head and carelessly set the empty flute on the edge of a planter. "I must be dreaming because I think you are actually being rather . . . civil. Dare I say pleasant? Am I dreaming?"

A luscious grin spread across her lips. "Oh no, you are not dreaming. Merely delusional," she said, and laughed lightly. "However, I must thank you for your generosity-"

"Ah!" he exclaimed, and nodded knowingly. He had sent the bank draft for her girls' school early that afternoon. "There is a reason for your kindness."

Claudia smiled coyly. "Yes, well, you were quite generous." The creamy skin of her neck began to flush. "I am in your debt."

For the amount he had given her? That caused him to grin broadly. "I rather like the sound of that," he said, laughing. "But you should know that your indebtedness comes for a paltry sum."

"Really?"

He nodded.

She rose up on her tiptoes and whispered, "Five thousand pounds?" And slipped down again. "But that is quite a lot of money! It should take me weeks to raise such a sum. But you . . . you just gave it to me!" she exclaimed, casting one arm wide. "Just gave it to me . . ."

And it was worth every bloody shilling, too, just to see her smile-even if it was one helped along by a flute of champagne. "Claudia?" he drawled, "how much champagne have you drunk?"

She laughed again, cast a beaming grin to the sun and the moon above her head. "Harrison has such fine champagne, has he not?"

"Yes, and quite a lot of it, apparently."

She turned her beatific smile to him; he felt it shimmer down his spine and land firmly in his groin. "Quite a lot," she agreed with an emphatic nod.

It was also a contagious smile-it spread to his own lips as he moved closer to her. "You are a bit into your cups, my dear, and I'm afraid there is only one thing to be done for it."

Claudia immediately stepped back, and laughing, he caught her elbow. "Don't fret-I am hardly going to accost you." No matter how badly I want to. "I had in mind a dance or two . . . just until you are feeling your old, demon self."

Claudia laughed as he slowly pulled her toward him. "You taught me how to waltz, do you remember?"

"I remember."

Her smile faded; she peered up at him, as if seeing something in the distance. "I was a demon then, too. And you . . . oh, you were terribly handsome."

If she hadn't been quite so far in her cups, Julian might have read more into that throaty whisper. But he merely chuckled. "As opposed to now?"

She flashed another, terribly alluring smile. With the tip of her finger she touched the knot of his neckcloth. "Now I think you are devastatingly handsome." Those words banished every gentlemanly instinct from his head. But before he could even react, she added lightly, "for a rake," and giggled devilishly.

"Demon's Spawn," he muttered, straining to hold himself from kissing the smirk from her lips.

"Libertine," she shot back, and suddenly leaned into him, asking breathlessly, "Dance with me?"

Nine.

CLAUDIA WANTED TO dance under the moon and the stars, even if they were rather crude renditions, just as they had years ago at Kettering Hall. Julian didn't think that such a grand idea and muttered something about stars and demons and trouble. But when the strains of the string quartet's waltz drifted out onto the terrace, he very gallantly bowed, smiling when she managed a clumsy curtsy. She slipped one hand into his and placed the other on his shoulder.

"Hmm . . . it appears I might have to count the steps for you."

She snorted. "Dance, will you?"

With a chuckle, he pressed his hand against the small of her back and swept her into the rhythm of the waltz. He moved as gracefully as she remembered, leading her easily, twirling her one way and then the other so effortlessly that Claudia had the sensation of floating. She smiled up at the moon and the sun and the stars painted above her head, watching the bright colors blur into a kaleidoscope. The champagne had muddled her mind a bit, making her feel all woozy and shiny and wondering if perhaps he wasn't such a very bad rake. And she liked dancing with him; she liked the way his arms felt like iron beneath her fingers, the way his hand rode the small of her back. She just wasn't quite sure why that made her giggle.

"I don't think I've ever seen you so relaxed," Julian remarked.

Oh, she was relaxed, all right. Practically weightless.

"I had rather thought you might never grace me with your smile again."

That was ridiculous and made her laugh as she lowered her gaze from the ceiling to look at him. His dark eyes were fixed on her lips; a strong shiver ran down Claudia's spine. "Why, I smile all the time, sir. From sunup to sundown practically, and particularly in the mornings when Randall brings me tarts."

A corner of Julian's mouth tipped upward. "Tarts, is it? I would have thought you learned your lesson. You recall, don't you, that you once ate your weight in them? You had a bellyache so ferocious that I had to send for Dr. Dudley. I should hope at the very least you learned to pace yourself."

She laughed gaily; what an absurdly faulty memory he had! "You have us all smashed together in your head, don't you? Can't remember one from the other. That was Eugenie."

"I don't have you all smashed together, I assure you," he said, his smile fading softly. "There is one that stands out from all the others-one that I can't seem to get out of my head."

Her initial assumption was that he meant Valerie by that, but his black eyes seemed to pierce her, boring down, down, down, into her very heart, and she realized that he was speaking of her. She missed a step-something she hadn't done in years-and Julian expertly righted her without missing a beat or taking his eyes from her. Heat and an odd sense of fear rumbled like thunder into her core. He was toying with her, seducing her for the sake of the chase, wanting to use her for God knew what purpose. "Why?" she suddenly blurted. "Why are you doing this to me? Why are you suddenly everywhere that I am?"

His response was to pull her closer so that their bodies touched-his thigh pressed to hers, her breasts to his chest. His hand curled around her fingers, gripping them tightly. "Because I can't get you out of my mind, Claudia! I haven't in a very long time and I am sick to death of pretending you aren't there."

All right, she was suddenly having trouble breathing. He was lying! Julian Dane thought of no one but himself-he certainly didn't moon over women! Oh God! This was too confusing! She couldn't think now, and curse Mary Whitehurst for so relentlessly begging her to come along tonight while her husband was away! She should have known this was the sort of affair he would attend!

"Are you all right?"

No, she was not all right. She forced herself to look at him. "Do you remember the night of Eugenie's wedding ball?" she suddenly asked. Julian's brows dipped into a confused frown, but he nodded. "You asked me to stand up with you for the first waltz." A moment passed; he blinked. There was no recognition in his eyes, nothing in his expression that suggested he remembered it at all. Claudia felt her heart begin to sink a little. "You . . . you asked me to stand up, and when it was over, you asked me to save another dance for you." There. It was out, one of the tentacles in the root of her distrust. But Julian only looked puzzled, and the heat quickly spread to her face and neck.

"I don't understand. Do you mean to say that I requested a second dance but did not claim it?"

Heat that was turning to fire-he looked appalled. "You . . . you just. . . yes. That is what happened." Her face was flaming. Really, she could use a bit of champagne just now!

"It is?"

Perhaps the earth would open up and swallow her whole. Having stated his horrid perfidy aloud she felt completely ridiculous. Ridiculous and pathetically silly. "You wouldn't understand," she muttered miserably.

"You are quite serious, aren't you?" he asked, his voice incredulous.

Claudia realized they had come to a halt at the edge of the terrace. "What I am trying to say"-she closed her eyes for a moment, tried to concentrate-"is that I have known what you are for years now."

He dropped her hand, folded his arms across his chest as his eyes narrowed with obvious displeasure. "You have known what I am for years now." It was a statement of incredulity, not a question.

"Ah . . . yes," she said, sounding terribly unsure.

"And that would be?"

Now was hardly the time to dissemble, she thought wildly and muttered, "A rake."

The expression in his eyes darkened. An absurd sense of panic welled up in her.

"A word, madam," he growled, and snatched her wrist, dragging her across the terrace, down into the garden, marching along at quite a clip toward the hothouse in the corner of the grounds. Claudia moved almost unconsciously, her thoughts a whirlwind of confusion, her heart warring mightily with what was left of her good sense.

Halfway there, he seemed to think better of dragging her and hauled her into his side, clamping an iron arm around her waist and steering her onward. "I've come to the conclusion that you are not only the Demon's Spawn, you are also woefully ignorant of men. And let me just add that this discovery is rather astonishing, what with the way you topple men over like chess pieces everywhere you go."

"What?" she gasped as he reached for the door of the hothouse and pushed it open. "I don't topple them!"